


The Point of the Sword

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricades, Battle, M/M, Multi, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: Enjolras wants all of his lieutenants to be capable of fighting.  Courfeyrac and Jehan take it upon themselves to get Combeferre's skills up to snuff.





	The Point of the Sword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [little-smartass (Linxcat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/gifts).



> I absolutely adored both this prompt and the picture you drew for it (littlesmartart.tumblr.com/post/178696978987), so I couldn't resist. I hope this is something like what you were imagining! Happy return to the light part of the year!

_The Point of the Sword_

"I don't want to fight."

There's a second of near absolute silence, and Combeferre curses the tricks of crowd logistics that sometimes create lulls in conversation, allowing just the _wrong_ bit of your statements to be projected.

Not that it matters much. There's no one but the Amis here right now, and it will come as no surprise to any of them that Combeferre is a pacifist.

"I know you don't want to fight. And I'm not saying you _have_ to." Enjolras sounds so damned reasonable, just like always. He looks so _concerned_ , eyebrows drawn down to dim the blue fire of his eyes. "Just that I want you to be _able_ to, if it comes down to fighting."

Because it will come down to fighting. Combeferre knows that, as the rest of the room does. No matter that he doesn't _want_ it to be true, there seems to be no way around it. Children starve; the rich do nothing. Workers go hungry for want of jobs; the rich do nothing. People _die_ , in so many ways they shouldn't, and still those who are supposed to be in charge do nothing. If they are not forced into action, it's become bitterly clear no action will be forthcoming.

Combeferre knows this. He's accepted it, in some part of himself. He has a stash of weapons, and he knows they will be used.

He just never imagined _himself_ using them. He knows too well the injuries they will cause, and the effort, sometimes futile, that will go into saving the injured once the fighting is done. He _could_ do a three-minute amputation, as was required of Napoleon's surgeons, but he has no desire to actually _do_ it, and less desire to be the _reason_ it needs to be done.

"I'm a doctor. I heal." He sounds plaintive, like a child, and hates it.

"I know." Enjolras lays one hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "But sometimes healing requires things we would rather not do, yes? Blood-letting. Inoculations. Setting damaged bones to a more proper alignment—"

"Enjolras." Courfeyrac insinuates himself into the conversation with his usual smile, putting a hand on Combeferre's free shoulder. "I hear there is discussion of combat?"

"Just of learning the basics. Just of being _able_ , as all our men should be able." Enjolras steps back a bit, accepting Courfeyrac into the conversation. "I am happy enough to have you act as doctor, Combeferre. Being _able_ does mean that one _must_ use their skills, and he who cannot use a sword—"

"Should take some time to familiarize himself with what they are capable of, I should think. Especially at our age." Courfeyrac grins, casting his eyes downward.

It takes Combeferre a moment to realize the insinuation being made, and then he sighs in exasperation. "We are being serious here, my friend."

"As am I." Courfeyrac manages to sober his expression between one breath and the next, looking earnestly into Combeferre's eyes. "I side with Enjolras in this. If it comes to fighting, and you want to be with us—"

"Of _course_ I'll be with you—"

"Then you'll do us the most good if you know how to use the tools that we will be both using and defending against." Courfeyrac whacks his cane against the floor, creating a sharp crack. "I always go armed. Would you consider me overly dangerous?"

"We're in the same room with Bahorel." Combeferre gestures to where the man in question is talking animatedly with some potential new recruits. "Everyone pales to insignificance when it comes to potential for fisticuffs when placed next to him."

"He is a rather explosive force, isn't he?" Jehan smiles dreamily as he comes up on Combeferre's other side. "Do you truly not know how to use weapons?"

"I'm familiar with the physics of gun and cannon, of course. I attended a lecture just last week on—" Combeferre cuts himself off. Perhaps another time he would discuss what he heard about the potential improvements coming to firearms—better smelting processes that will allow for greater accuracy and power. Now, when considering what damage he can inflict with his own hands, he finds it less fascinating and clinically relevant. "But I have never used a blade, no."

"I grew up with them. Taught my little cousin, because she asked me to." Jehan takes a drink from his glass. "She's better than me, and would likely make a better teacher. But if you would allow me the honor, I would be happy to demonstrate some simple moves to you."

"That makes two of us." Courfeyrac's fingers tighten on Combeferre's shoulder. "If you decide not to use what you know, all the better. But knowledge by itself is incapable of harming anyone, and will give you more options in the future."

"All right." Combeferre sighs, knowing that his friends are right and wishing that they weren't. "All right. I'll have the two of you teach me, if you would be so kind."

"Thank you." Enjolras' whole body seems to relax in relief as he smiles at their little trio. "I leave you to their capable tutelage, then."

Combeferre looks from Courfeyrac to Jehan. They will likely be better teachers for him than Enjolras—he has seen Enjolras fight in riots and little dust-ups before, and the man is a whirlwind of precision pain for his enemies. Likely best to learn from those a little less... fierce.

He still wishes he didn't have to learn it at all.

XXX

"How's this one feel?"

Combeferre holds the fencing foil dubiously in his right hand. This is the fourth vaguely sword-shaped instrument he's tried in both hands this morning, and none of them have felt natural. "No better or worse than the last one."

"All right, well." Courfeyrac runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving it artfully rumpled. "Let's start some lessons with this, then. It's light, designed not to damage—a good learner's tool."

Jehan is wearing something that likely went out of fashion two centuries ago, the sleeves poofing out around his wrists. He has no vest or jacket to make the shirt decent, and the laces are open to reveal a rather scandalous amount of chest. He adopts a stance with his own foil, moving back and forth with the easy motions of familiarity. "It's been a bit since I did this. I think it will be fun, though."

"Only because it's not real." Combeferre can hear the bitterness in his own voice, and tries to will it away. "Sorry. I just... I see people with blade wounds on a regular basis. I am loath to cause more."

"Don't think of it that way." Courfeyrac massages at Combeferre's shoulders, then begins using his leg to push Combeferre's feet into a different stance. At first Combeferre is unbalanced; then Courfeyrac's hands shift to his hips, changing his orientation, and everything feels much more natural. "Think of it, right now, as a dance you're doing with us."

Courfeyrac is _very_ close. His breath is a warm, teasing wind against Combeferre's left ear, and Combeferre is very glad his skin is too dark to blush easily. "Ah... I'm not terribly skilled at dancing, either. As you know."

How long has their little trio been in existence? A year, almost? Courfeyrac is the center of it, as he is the center of so much. Combeferre remembers that clearly now, as Courfeyrac uses intimacy to distract him from how much he doesn't want to be doing this.

"Perhaps dancing can be our second lesson of the day." Jehan is either oblivious to how close Courfeyrac is standing, or thinks it's a marvelous idea, because he comes over and begins adjusting Combeferre's hand with the foil. "There. You want to hold it firmly, but not in a death grip. There's no artery you're trying to squeeze here. You just want to control the foil, but not so much you'll lose feeling or slow yourself down. Try holding it as though it were a scalpel."

"Let's not make medical references for this, all right?" Combeferre does as Jehan recommends—or at least, holds the foil with the same tenor of force that he'd use on a scalpel, since the grip is obviously very different—and finds it improves his feeling of control immensely.

"All right." Courfeyrac steps back, though he keeps his hands on Combeferre's shoulders. "What kind of references _are_ we allowed to make? Is talk of other types of swords acceptable?"

Combeferre considers throwing down the foil, but he's smiling as he does so. "Why? Do you think you have other swords in mind that would be more interesting?"

"That depends on what you're interested in?" Courfeyrac moves his body back in closer, his vest pressing to Combeferre's back.

Combeferre feels his breath catch in his throat. He should be used to this by now. Courfeyrac flirts openly with many people, and has not been shy about his affections for either Combeferre or Jehan. It still comes as a bit of a surprise, this rich, well-born man so very clearly flattering and desiring him, in the exact same way he desires others. It yet one more charm that Courfeyrac has, really—the ability to flatter and compliment just about anyone on their looks and abilities and really seem to _mean_ it.

"There are many, many interesting swords, from Excalibur onward." Jehan looks from Combeferre to Courfeyrac, and his own smile grows. "And, of course, many less famous swords that are nonetheless important and worthy of attention in their own right."

Courfeyrac smiles, a shift of familiar facial muscles that Combeferre can feel against his neck, and then moves away again. "Come. A bit of actual practice first. Once I am confident you will stick the right end of the sword into the proper place, then we can have a bit more fun."

"You assume I want to have more fun." Combeferre tries to adopt the same stance Courfeyrac had nudged him into before. He comes close, but there's still something not quite right about it.

Jehan comes forward, using his bare foot to urge Combeferre's right leg out a bit and to adjust the angle of Combeferre's foot. He feels much more balanced when Jehan is done.

Jehan smiles at him. "If you wish us to simply focus on the sword-work, we can do that. But if you wish to have things a bit more romantic..."

Or Romantic, Combeferre thinks as he studies Jehan. Life and death blurred together, emotion embraced with full-hearted enthusiasm... yes, this is exactly the type of thing he would expect Jehan to enjoy.

"We want to help you, Combeferre. Because we care about you." Courfeyrac's hands move away from Combeferre's shoulders. "Just let us know what we can do to achieve that."

"Help me learn a bit first, and then..." Why not? Their lives are short and precarious enough, and Combeferre sees all too often how viciously short they can be. He will cherish this time he has with friends, holding it close and not letting love go without fully experiencing it. "Then help me remember."

The next three hours are frustrating, exhausting, and repetitive. Courfeyrac and Jehan don't bother with anything that can't be used in actual combat, though they do demonstrate some of the more standard moves so that Combeferre is aware of what to expect if his opponent falls into them due to muscle memory. The only thing that makes the training bearable is the company that he's in, and the affection that's clear in every touch.

"Did you never learn _any_ type of combat?" Courfeyrac seems honestly curious and baffled as he adjusts Combeferre's hold on the foil yet again.

"My mother was determined I wouldn't need it—that I would be a man of learning and gentility."

"While those of us born to that class were forced to learn the forms while never being expected to use them." Jehan's tone is musing. "Well, unless we do it for sport. Or to duel."

"Plus..." Combeferre wipes sweat out of his eyes. "I've wanted to be a healer for a long time. It seems counter to my calling to purposefully inflict injury."

"And that makes you a better man than many of us." Courfeyrac adjusts his arm again, and Combeferre groans.

Switching the foil to his other hand, he stretches out the muscles in his right arm, wincing as he does. "I wouldn't say that. Just... different. I can appreciate that sometimes... sometimes there isn't a way around violence."

"Sometimes there is violence happening in silence and shadows and the selfish inability to see beyond one's own desires." Jehan's voice gives the softly-spoken words the cadence of poetry, and Combeferre wonders if they are an idea he has or will one day write down. "To fight against that violence, to bring it into the light, is justice."

Combeferre nods. "And heavens know I don't want to die, if it comes to fighting. I just... I never have been and never will be comfortable hurting people, not if I can help them instead."

"Sometimes a fist to the nose is a great deal of help." Courfeyrac slips an arm around Combeferre's waist, pressing close. It ruins Combeferre's stance, but he finds any protest dying in his throat as Courfeyrac's lips trail lightly down his neck.

"Oh, is it time for something different?" Jehan moves closer, smiling as his fingers close around Combeferre's.

Combeferre isn't sure how, but a moment later the foil is gone from his hand, and Jehan's lips are against his.

The next hour passes in a much more enjoyable fashion.

Then Courfeyrac is fetching the foil again, pressing it into Combeferre's hand.

Combeferre groans. "Really, must we?"

"Just a bit more." Courfeyrac creates a chain of kisses around Combeferre's right wrist. "But I say we don't dress for this bit, and we see what mnemonic devices we can come up with for you."

Combeferre still complains when Jehan hauls him out of bed, but the last hour of their practice is both more enjoyable and more memorable than the part that came before.

When the other two suggest another session when Combeferre's schedule allows, he doesn't complain. Much.

XXX

The dawn is sweltering, just as the day before had been.

Cannon fire in the distance. The fighting isn't over, then, despite all that has happened in the last twenty-four hours. Combeferre sighs, wiping his bloody hands on a cloth and pressing forward, out of the building and into the almost-deserted streets. Enjolras said that their make-shift infirmary was safe when he was last here, but Combeferre has done all he can for those inside. While there is this lull in the combat close by, he will look for more people he can help.

The first one he sees wears the military's uniform, but that doesn't mean much. People have been changing sides en masse, and even if the young man—twenty-two, maybe, or twenty-three—is their enemy, Combeferre won't leave him to bleed out in the street.

The soldier doesn't struggle when Combeferre slips his arms under the man's shoulders and tries to lift him. He doesn't help, either, instead continuing to put all his effort into breathing. His lips are faintly blue, and Combeferre knows from the clammy, cool skin and that pallor that he likely won't survive to see noon.

The other soldier comes out of nowhere. He's about the same age as the one that Combeferre is trying to help, and the bayonet on the end of his rifle is coated in blood. Combeferre freezes, unsure what he should do—what he _can_ do. Then his body is moving, curling around the man he has taken as his patient in a defensive crouch.

There is a cry, a crack of bone against something hard, and Combeferre blinks up to see Jehan holding the soldier's rifle while the man kneels on the ground, his nose gushing blood as he tries to staunch the flow.

"Are you hurt?" Jehan doesn't take his eyes from the soldier as he asks the question.

"No." Combeferre tries once more to lift his patient, then decides he is going to have to drag the injured man along. "Thanks to you."

"You're welcome." Jehan shifts the rifle, pointing the bayonet at the soldier on the ground. "Come on, you. Stand. If you cooperate, you won't be hurt."

The soldier stands dazedly, blinking at Jehan as though Jehan were a foreign concept.

Perhaps that's not quite so surprising. Jehan is dressed as, well, _himself_ , wearing a pale yellow shirt that would have looked more appropriate a hundred years ago and a soft green jacket that has been spattered with blood, gunpowder, and other less pleasant things throughout the night. His feet are bare, and Combeferre winces, wondering what happened to the man's shoes. He had them when the fighting started, right? Even Jehan wouldn't dive into a mess like this without his shoes on.

Courfeyrac meets them at the entrance to the shop that has become Combeferre's infirmary. He helps Combeferre drag the still-breathing dying man to a clear patch of floor, and then Combeferre is lost in the sea of need around him. Others were looking for the injured, just as he was, and he and Joly both spend the next few hours striving to save those who can be saved, and to be comfort to those who cannot.

Enjolras gathers his lieutenants as rations are passed out for dinner. "The tide seems to be going our way. The military is divided—more turn to us with every hour. I think, in another day or two, we will see an end to the Bourbons. In the meantime, we will continue to coordinate with the others—"

Combeferre is called away then, and sits at the bedside (if it can be called that, this patch of swept hardwood that is spattered with blood now) of the soldier he had tried to save as the man draws his last breath. He hadn't thought the boy would last past noon. It is cold comfort to think he earned the man another few hours.

Courfeyrac joins him in the infirmary some time later, waiting for a break in Combeferre's pacing to approach him. "Jehan told me about what happened."

A shudder runs through Combeferre's body, and he feels cold for the first time all day. "I..."

Courfeyrac's arms wrap around Combeferre, pulling him in tight. "You are wondrous, and I am sorry this is so difficult for you. And I am so, so glad that you are alive."

Combeferre returns Courfeyrac's embrace. "As am I. Perhaps, even, we will all survive to see a new, better world."

Jehan's soft voice comes from behind him. "Will the Fates make it so."

Turning to smile at Jehan, Combeferre gestures for him to join their small huddle.

Jehan does so. He smells like blood, and like cannon, and his hair is a wild brown halo that tickles at Combeferre's nose.

They can't stay together like this for long, Combeferre knows. Combeferre has patients to see. Jehan and Courfeyrac are needed to keep the Amis functioning, to keep their people and those they are coordinating with focused. To keep their friends and allies from doing anything they will regret in the morning, when the fighting is done and those who were enemies are once more countrymen.

They can take a few moments, though. They can breathe in the scent of each other, still there beneath the sweat and the miasma of combat. They can feel fingertips against necks, against wrists, against each other's fingers.

They can steal a kiss, first Courfeyrac, then Jehan, and enjoy the warmth and solidity of each other's lips.

"Be careful." Courfeyrac makes the admonition as he pulls away, his fingers trailing over Combeferre's face. His waistcoat has lost half its buttons, Combeferre notices, and his hat is missing. "I'll see you when I'm able."

"The same to you." Jehan pulls Courfeyrac into an embrace, kissing him before letting him go. "We'll all meet back here when we're able. And together, we'll see a new dawn rise."

Combeferre nods, smiling at his friends as they file back out into the chaos that the streets have become.

They will see a new dawn, red as blood.

Hopefully it will finally, finally be the blood of a new world being born, a world improved enough to make up for the red he will be washing out of his hands for weeks to come.


End file.
